


When in Rome

by mag_lex



Series: Commuter!AU [3]
Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/F, Remy/Yaz, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-26
Updated: 2020-12-26
Packaged: 2021-03-11 05:07:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,604
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28345878
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mag_lex/pseuds/mag_lex
Summary: Remy and Yaz visit Rome.
Relationships: Thirteenth Doctor/Yasmin Khan
Series: Commuter!AU [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1916845
Comments: 12
Kudos: 41





	When in Rome

**Author's Note:**

> Happy holidays! I hope you're all doing well. 
> 
> I'm uploading this here since it's the final part of this trilogy 🙂 but would recommend checking it out on WordPress instead for an extra surprise that isn't on ao3! https://maglexfic.wordpress.com/2020/12/26/when-in-rome-e/
> 
> All my new fics are going up there for now, probably until s13 aka the thasmin series airs ❤️
> 
> This is super romantic fluff and it was such good fun to write because I could just pretend I was there 😂

The sound of scribbling wakes Yaz. The repetitive rasping is consistent enough to crack through the roof of her dreams and let consciousness filter through, but it occurs so slowly that it takes her several minutes to figure out what she’s actually listening to. 

There’s the tell-tale sound of a sigh as Remy stops what she’s doing. Yaz can picture her, even with her eyes closed: her tongue will be poking out of the corner of her mouth as she tries to figure out what needs fixing. Yaz can never quite tell because whatever Remy draws always looks magnificent to her, but Remy’s eye is always drawn to imperfections. She wants everything she makes, even the doodles she draws on bar napkins, to be as good as they can be. It’s endearing but Yaz knows she is probably beating herself up about a patch of shading that isn’t quite right and she doesn’t want her to do that. 

“Remy?” she murmurs into the pillow, tipping her head backwards and cracking open an eye so that she can confirm her suspicions: Remy is sitting in a chair by the bed, sketchbook perched in her lap while she scrutinises her work. Her hair is lit by the sun from behind but even in silhouette, Yaz can see the crease between her eyebrows as she frowns at the paper.

“Morning, Yaz,” Remy grins, abandoning her inspection when she realises Yaz is awake. She twirls the pencil in her fingers and Yaz stares at her hands. 

“I didn’t wake you, did I?”

“No. About time I got up, anyway,” Yaz yawns and rolls fully so that she’s facing Remy, and she doesn’t bother fixing the sheet as it falls from her shoulders. Remy’s eyes widen. 

“Don’t move, Yaz,” she implores, and Yaz realises too late that she’s essentially moved into an even better position for Remy to draw her. At least this way she can watch her, and watching Remy draw is one of her new favourite hobbies. If Yaz could give up her day job to do it full time, she’d do it without hesitation. As it stands, she has a precious few days off work and that will have to do. 

Remy turns the page to start a fresh sketch and Yaz seizes the opportunity for another yawn, free from Remy’s gaze on her. She realises that Remy is fully dressed and frowns. 

“Have you been out already?”

“Mm hmm,” Remy hums absent-mindedly, already getting to work, her eyes flicking between Yaz and the page with a look of such concentration that Yaz almost feels lazy. But it’s not entirely her fault she’s slept in when Remy kept her up late the night before. 

“Got breakfast,” Remy continues after a moment, and there it is, that flash of pink tongue as she focuses on Yaz. It’s hard to resist the urge to cover herself, even after several months of practice, but Yaz remains as still as she can and tries to accept the fact that Remy will always want to draw her naked. It’s a compliment of the highest order but it’s still strange, to Yaz; the furthest she’s ever gone before is a naughty picture she’s taken on her phone and sent to someone else, but actual art? That’s something new entirely. She’s not entirely sure she’s deserving but she keeps her mouth shut, because she can already imagine Remy’s response. They’ve had that particular discussion before. 

“Let me guess...pastel de nata?”

“Bingo,” Remy breathes, the frown line between her brow easing as she moves her arm fluidly. Yaz longs to see what she sees but she knows she has to be patient. Still, watching Remy at work, the way her hands move, and the intensity of her gaze on her is both nerve-wracking and arousing. Yaz misses the feel of those hands. She’s envious of a pencil, for crying out loud. Especially when Remy taps the end against her lips as she looks at Yaz, eyes roving from shoulder to hip to leg to chest. 

“You alright there?” Yaz asks, her tone teasing when she realises Remy’s gotten distracted. 

"Just figuring out my proportions,” Remy smirks, finally moving her gaze away from Yaz’s bare breasts. “Pretty sure I could draw you with my eyes closed by now. Maybe I need to switch mediums, change things up a bit.”

“Oh?"

“My eyes know you very well, but so do my hands. I think I could commit their memory to clay. Make it more tangible.”

“A sculpture?”

Remy nods, and puts the pad to one side. Yaz resists the urge to peek at the open page; she knows Remy doesn’t like showing her a work in progress. She’d once told Yaz that she only ever wanted her to see the end result but that even then, it was nowhere near as beautiful as the real thing; that it was different when Yaz saw her art because Remy actually cared what she thought of it. Especially when the art was of her, because she wanted to do justice to her beauty. Yaz had blushed and not known what to say because nobody had ever said anything like that to her before. All she knew was that it sounded incredibly romantic and when Remy had then suggested this particular trip, she’d felt her heart positively flutter at the prospect. 

And now...here they are, in a new city, Yaz half naked and posing for an artist who also just happens to be her girlfriend. Life really had changed over the past eight months.

“I think they could do with a refresher, though,” Remy continues, oblivious to Yaz’s thoughts. Her nimble fingers tug at the sheet that’s barely protecting her modesty. The cotton slides down Yaz’s legs with a whisper and then there are hands touching her, tracing the outline of her with a pressure that would be ticklish if there wasn’t serious intent behind it. 

“I think I could really do this part of you justice,” Remy murmurs as she momentarily cups Yaz’s breasts, then brushes her fingers underneath them as she continues to measure Yaz with her hands.

“What about here?” Yaz moans, clasping one roving hand within hers and guiding it between her legs in a brazen move that drives a flush of pink to Remy’s cheeks. It’s warm outside but Yaz knows for a fact that she put that heat there. She’s proud but it lasts all of three milliseconds because then there are deft fingers running through the slick between her legs, teasing her open, and she realises she’s complete putty in Remy’s hands. She has a feeling she knows how clay might feel and she bites her lip as Remy moulds her, manipulates her with her hands and touches her in intimate ways that reach beyond a physical level. Whenever Remy touches her it feels like she is somehow creating something new from her, like she’s getting a feel for more than just her body: like she’s understanding the very essence of her in the way that only Remy can, and every time it happens Yaz feels like she changes, somehow. It’s magical. 

She holds her breath as Remy slips inside, stiffening and then melting into it as Remy’s other arm comes up to hold her steady. 

“Did you want a repeat from last night?” Remy murmurs, dotting kisses on her lips and cheeks, but Yaz shakes her head. She’d questioned how wise it’d be to bring a strap-on in their hand luggage but Remy didn’t think twice and Yaz is grateful for her confidence because she’d enjoyed the benefits of it well into the small hours of the morning. But now she doesn’t want to be taken from behind; she wants to see Remy’s face. After all, it’s not every morning she gets to see her the moment she wakes up, as much as she wishes that could be the case.

“Just you. I want to see you.”

Remy nods, already breathless as she pursues a deceptively leisurely pace. In reality, she’s stroking against and inside her with precision and power that’s all too obvious when Yaz sees the muscles in her arm tensing. 

“Don’t forget you can be as loud as you want.”

Remy moves so that her mouth can join her hand and Yaz tries to take her advice. They may not be at home, but it’s a hard habit to break; trying to keep their endeavours quiet when Sonya is just next door has proven impossible, to the point that Yaz no longer invites Remy over to spend the night. There’s more than enough space for both of them at her Camden flat, anyway.

Then Remy does something with her tongue that wrings a cry from Yaz’s lips and she completely abandons any plans to keep quiet. Their current neighbours are strangers they’ll certainly never see again, and Yaz is tired of being considerate of others when she’s always surrounded by so many people at home. Remy repeats the move and it’s like she’s somehow flicked a switch deep inside because Yaz suddenly finds it physically impossible to keep quiet, and neither can Remy when she hears how much Yaz is enjoying herself. 

“That’s it,” she encourages, pulling her mouth away just long enough to encourage her. “Let me hear you.”

Yaz throws her head back as the fingers inside her curl and she reaches blindly for Remy’s head, guiding her mouth back to where she needs it. She knows Remy enjoys the feedback and she does her best to be as eloquent as she can, even as Remy’s mouth severely limits higher brain functions. Less than subtle suggestions will suffice for now.

She can feel her fingers tangling in blonde hair but most of all she can feel that clever tongue swiping through her, just rough enough to feel over the sensitive skin but soft enough to prolong the inevitable. 

“Remy,” she groans, simultaneously a sigh of pleasure and impatience. She’s certain she can feel Remy smirk against her, which should be impossible because her lips are wrapped around her clit, but she understands Yaz perfectly and starts to suck as she flicks her tongue, making hungry noises that filter through Yaz’s brain and make it even easier for her to guide another finger inside. 

“Just like that,” Yaz pants, hips rocking into Remy’s face. They’re past the point of politeness, now, and Remy can hold her own, her free hand digging into Yaz’s hip as she guides her. Yaz isn’t certain when it all became so frantic but she’s so close that all she can do is endeavour to repay the favour more slowly when she can. Right this second she’s coming apart under Remy’s mouth, her hands, and she can only concentrate on how they feel against her, which is fucking marvellous. 

She’s very loud when she comes, and later she’ll make a comment about collecting her gold stars but now it’s all she can do to remember to breathe. 

Remy eases her fingers out and hops off the bed to freshen up in the bathroom before she re-joins Yaz, this time, naked. 

“Morning, beautiful,” Remy grins, and she kisses her soundly on the mouth. Once upon a time, Yaz would have pulled away - especially since she’s not yet brushed her teeth - but Remy has converted her into a fan of morning sex. Remy has converted her into a fan of many things, truth be told. Yaz tastes the lingering flavour of coffee and herself on Remy’s tongue. It all feels very grown up, and she’s thrilled when she thinks about the city that’s awaiting them now that she’s awake.

“That’s better,” Yaz sighs, heart still racing as she finally lays hands on her very nude girlfriend. “I can’t believe I woke up and you were already dressed. How long were you awake for?”

“Couple of hours,” Remy shrugs. Yaz has an inkling that it was longer than that; she doesn’t know what time it is but the bright light outside and the hunger in her belly suggest it’s nearly lunchtime. That, and Remy keeps strange hours, especially when she’s feeling as creative as she apparently was that morning.

“I obviously didn’t tire you out enough last night.”

“There’s always time to remedy that,” Remy suggests, eyebrow quirked. 

But Yaz’s rumbling stomach interrupts before she can say anything in response. 

“Perhaps we should feed you first, though.”

Yaz’s protests fall on deaf ears as Remy immediately half-slides, half-bounces out of bed in a way that’s arresting when it really shouldn't be. Yaz muses it’s because she can see the dimples of her lower back when she does it. In some respects, Remy is the smoothest person Yaz has ever encountered, but every now and again she’ll do something that reminds Yaz that she’s basically a giant kid. 

“Come on. Bit of breakfast to keep your energy up. Well. Probably lunch,” Remy amends, and Yaz feels terrible for sleeping so late. 

“You’re joking?” Yaz sighs. “You should have woken me up.”

“Not a chance. This is your holiday, remember? No nine-to-five, no commute, and most of all, no work,” Remy reminds her. She has a point. Yaz has been run ragged at work all summer and was seeing spreadsheets in her dreams only last week, but now her mind is full of more pleasant things, to the point where there is literally no space for thoughts of life back home.

Remy snags the sheet she’d peeled off Yaz only half an hour before and wraps it around herself, foregoing the clothes she’s just removed, and opens the balcony doors to let in the warmth and the light. Yaz sighs and reluctantly leaves the bed, promising herself she’ll make up for lost time later. She really is hungry, and as she pulls on some pants and a t-shirt, she is grateful that Remy has already sourced some food. 

The sounds of a vespa on the street below cut through the relative peace and quiet and before long, Yaz can hear the distant sounds of the city as it goes about its morning. The skyline of Rome that they can see right now is very different to the views from her bedroom or her office but, while it is less loud than London, it is no less chaotic. The streets below them are lined with double-parked vehicles and Yaz wonders why anybody decides to drive in any big city, never mind this one. It all seems too headache-inducing and Yaz would rather deal with people on the Tube than with road rage. Then again, after spending three days walking the cobbled streets in baking sunshine, she can understand the benefits of air-conditioned transportation: Italy in August is warm to say the least, and the Tube is a wall of oppressive heat in the muggy summer months.

The air is cleaner than London’s, though, and not plagued by the weary exhalations of hundreds of double-decker buses. Yaz takes a deep breath, feels the sun on her skin, and smiles.

“Here.”

Remy holds out a pastry in her hand and it’s clear she wants to feed it to Yaz, who makes a game attempt at taking a bite. She’s still chewing when Remy pops the other half in her own mouth with a cheeky grin, and is about to complain about being short-changed when Remy pulls out another. Yaz glances at the paper bag on the table and realises that Remy’s probably bought half a kilo of the things. She makes a mental note not to weigh herself when they get home because it’s become all too apparent that Remy lives on sugary treats and besides, they’ve been burning it off.

“Mm. Delicious,” Remy mutters around a mouthful of food and Yaz tells her off for talking with her mouth full.

“You don’t normally complain.”

“And you know exactly why that is,” Yaz blushes and nudges her with her elbow. She lets Remy feed her another half and then waits for her to finish eating before she brushes a stray bit of pastry from the corner of her mouth. 

“You’re such a messy eater, sometimes.”

“Again,” Remy drawls, “you don’t normally complain.”

Yaz groans and hides her face with her hands but she can’t help the smile that breaks out at the imagery Remy’s words invoke.

“Here, I think you’ve missed a bit, too,” Remy says.

Yaz lowers her hands from her face only to realise that it’s all a ruse because Remy’s lips press against her own. They taste of custard and sugar and something else that Yaz can’t describe. She savours it, hungry for more, and opens her mouth to try and deepen the taste. Gentle hands move up to run through her hair, hold her close, and they’re both so absorbed in one another that Remy has to pull away abruptly when it becomes apparent her sheet has slipped. 

“Come on,” Yaz laughs. “We don’t want to flash the street. That’s all for private viewing.”

“Yeah,” Remy sighs, tightening her grip on the white cotton. “Plus we have lots to do today, Yaz. We’d better get a shift on.”

“But you’re naked,” Yaz’s face crumples a little in disappointment.

“I'll be naked later, too. And if you play your cards right…” Remy leans in to whisper in her ear, “you can do to me what I did to you last night.”

Yaz feels a throb between her legs at the thought. She nods her head rapidly. She needs a cold shower, all of a sudden.

“Sold. Where are we going?”

Once they’re showered and dressed for an afternoon exploring - Yaz in a summer dress and Remy in some knee-length shorts and a pineapple print short-sleeved shirt - Remy starts to lead them through the streets once more. Every time they step out into the city, Yaz feels a little self-conscious, not just because she’s a stranger to the place but because of what the locals are wearing. They are incredibly fashionable and good-looking and confident. She fusses with her dress, which she borrowed from her sister.

“You look incredible, by the way. You're the most beautiful woman in Rome. Fact,” Remy assures her, and Yaz starts to feel at ease. Remy always knows just what to say and her confidence in her own skin and in her clothes, as unique as they are, rubs off on Yaz before long. 

They walk for the best part of half an hour and Yaz is relieved when Remy tells her that they’re nearly there. She starts to recognise the side streets but when the Pantheon suddenly appears before them she is still taken aback. 

“Come on, just a little further.” Remy leads them through now-familiar side-streets to a nondescript building just past the Pantheon. It’s a church, a big one, but from the outside it looks no different to any of the other churches they’ve been in. Yaz is getting a little tired of churches but Remy’s enthusiasm never wavers. Perhaps that’s why she eats so much sugar. Or perhaps her enthusiasm is because of the sugar, Yaz can never quite tell, but the end result is the same: she is a font of energy.

“I’ve saved the best ‘til last.”

Yaz double-checks that her dress is covering her shoulders and knees sufficiently and, satisfied, steps through the open door and into the cool dark of the building. Given the change in light it takes her a second to realise what she’s looking at. 

Remy says nothing and simply points upwards and Yaz feels her mouth drop open when she sees what’s painted on the ceiling. It's incredible and immense and Yaz struggles to take it all in at once. It's the same size as the Sistine Chapel but so impressive that Yaz feels herself holding her breath in awe.

If she’s being honest, Yaz had been underwhelmed about the Sistine Chapel, and her enthusiasm probably wasn’t helped by the heaps of tourists gawking at the ceiling and talking too loudly. This church is peaceful and cool and calm and the artwork on the ceiling is like nothing she’s ever seen before. It yields something new with every passing second and Yaz can't tear her eyes away. She’s certain Remy will fill her in on the technical terms for what she’s looking at but her gut reaction is so all-encompassing that she’s grateful for a moment just to take it all in. 

To her surprise, Remy doesn’t talk her through it. She seems just as awed. Yaz loses track of time but she knows they must spend the best part of 20 minutes looking upwards because her neck starts to ache and with reluctance, she follows Remy back outside into the city. 

“Wow,” she breathes, blinking fast as she adjusts to the glare. Remy offers her her sunglasses - Yaz is still kicking herself for forgetting to bring any - and Yaz accepts them gratefully. 

“I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve gone in there,” Remy admits, leading them towards what Yaz is 99% certain is a gelateria. They normally end up eating gelato for lunch and she agreed early on in the holiday to let Remy lead the way. She’s more than happy to go along for the ride, especially since Remy knows the city like the back of her hand and can steer them away from the tourist hotspots. She’s the best tour guide Yaz could ask for, particularly because she gets to end every evening with her, too. In fact, they’ve spent barely any time apart for several days, now, and while Yaz had been a little apprehensive about it before they’d left - it’s the longest they’ve spent alone together - being with Remy in Rome is so easy that she wonders what she was worried about. 

“It was one of the first places I was recommended to visit when I lived here and I used to go every day.”

“I can see why,” Yaz nods. “I would, too.”

“Much better than the Sistine Chapel, don’t you think?” Remy grins conspiratorially.

“I thought that, too...but isn’t that sacrilege?”

“You can have an opinion on art. It’s so subjective that it’s almost impossible not to.”

They pull up to a gelateria on the corner and Yaz tries to ignore the butterflies in her stomach when Remy starts speaking in fluent Italian. Every time she does it, Yaz melts even faster than the ice cream they eat. 

As she digs into her gelato, Remy makes a satisfied sound that’s positively sinful and not dissimilar from one she made earlier that morning. Yaz is grateful to find a bench by a fountain nearby for them to sit in the shade, which is her excuse, but really it’s because her knees have weakened at the sounds coming from Remy’s mouth. 

“God, that’s good.”

“Mm,” Yaz agrees distractedly, entranced by the simple pleasure of her girlfriend enjoying ice cream. 

“This used to be a stadium, back in Roman times,” Remy adds, eyes scanning the square. “Welcome to Piazza Navona.”

It’s less of a square, really, more of a long, skinny rectangle, and Yaz tries to picture how it might have once looked. But it’s hard to do that when there are so many tourists milling about and the space is dominated by so many fountains. One thing she’s learned about Rome: it’s full of fountains. Yaz thinks of Trafalgar Square and the fountains there, which don’t quite have the same aesthetic appeal. London can feel a little cold at times, and it’s not just the weather.

“How do you know so much?” Yaz asks instead. It’s a genuine question because Remy seems to know a fact for every occasion. Once upon a time Yaz had found that intimidating but now she realises it’s just Remy’s way of taking pleasure in the world. Every now and again she also knows it’s Remy’s way of trying to impress her although Yaz’s bar is very low when it comes to this woman. It’s charming that she continues to make such an effort.

“I have a brain like a sponge, it soaks up everything. It can be handy when I want to impress you,” Remy acknowledges, “but it has its downsides, too.” 

Yaz has learned that Remy can often get lost in her thoughts and she suspects this intensity of thought is partly responsible. She gives her hand a reassuring squeeze and they finish their cold treat in comfortable quiet, content to watch people going about their days. It’s a nice treat to people-watch and Yaz never does it in London, but she wonders if tourists there do the same to her: watch her heading to work in the morning or taking a lunch break, and seeing the city through completely different eyes because they aren’t chained to it in quite the same way. They are one step removed from the rhythms of daily life, setting their own pace, observers to the inner workings of the city.

“You seem to be lost in thought too, Yaz,” Remy observes. She’s already finished her gelato and Yaz realises she needs to catch up before hers melts all over her hands.

“Just thinking about London. How different it is here.”

“Mm. I know what you mean,” Remy agrees, and Yaz is certain she’s not imagining a slightly wistful tone.

“Do you miss it at all?”

“Rome?”

“Yeah.” 

Remy nods. Yaz pushes the boat out because she’s noticed a change in Remy over the past few days and she’s not sure what’s responsible for the shift, but she’s curious. She wonders if getting away has made Remy take stock of things, too. 

“Would you ever want to live here again?”

“Maybe,” Remy admits, and Yaz feels a prickle of something in her gut. She wonders if there’s room for her in this future that Remy is considering. “I'd eat too much gelato, though. Might need to work up to that one.”

To their left, someone uses the water fountain and proceeds to hold their dog under the stream of cool water. Yaz can’t help but giggle at the unusual sight but her laughter is cut short when the dog in question seems to take umbrage at her response and starts to shake off the excess, splashing both of them. 

“Mi scusi,” the man apologises, smiling genuinely as he tries to lead the dog away from them, and Yaz muses that that would probably never happen in London. She’s overheard too many fraught interactions - outside pubs, on the Tube, on the streets - for her first response to be anything but guarded. But the interactions they’ve had with people in Rome thus far have been far more relaxed, and even their pace of walking has slowed right down. They don’t have a crowd of people rushing alongside them at any given moment.

“Non c'è problema,” Remy replies, wrinkling her nose as she squints into the glare. Yaz spies a freckle on her cheek and realises she’s caught the sun. She has an undeniable glow about her, and it’s not just the dusting of melanin across her cheeks or the slight tan on her skin. 

“You seem happy,” Yaz notes, smiling herself when Remy turns back to grin at her. 

“That's because I am.”

“You know, if there’s anything I can do to make you feel happier…” Yaz starts. She’s worried that life back in London will be something of a disappointment after this. 

“You already do, Yaz.” Remy’s tone turns serious. “But you know what, I’ve just realised we’ve forgotten to do something quite important, something that would make me very happy, now that I think about it.”

The glint in Remy’s eyes gives the game away, but Yaz plays along anyway. 

“Let’s see…” she ponders, gamely ticking their itinerary off on her fingers. “Coliseum, check...Vatican city, check...Pantheon, check…you may have to give me a clue.”

“I can do one better and tell you: I haven’t kissed you here, yet.”

“Oh. That’s a very good point, and one that must be fixed pronto,” Yaz smiles, adopting a terrible Italian accent for the last word. Within seconds Remy is dipping her head to one side and Yaz’s eyes close as she feels cool, sweet lips press against her own. It’s hard to tear herself away, and Yaz wishes she could relive every moment of this holiday. They part with a sigh and she abandons her gelato. It’s a goner, and so is she.

“There is actually one other thing we should do before we leave,” Remy adds, apparently serious this time. “But it’s on the way back. Fancy taking a look before we get ready for dinner?”

As they walk the cobbled streets, they discuss their plans for their penultimate night in Rome. At each corner there’s something to see, be it a shop, a restaurant, or even, at one point, an opera singer busking. And while Yaz knows that London is also full of such novelties, they are denied the element of surprise because all of it is just so familiar that it barely registers anymore. There is an undeniable thrill in discovering a new city with Remy by her side. 

But Remy is quieter than usual as they walk and Yaz thinks she feels it, too: the onset of post-holiday blues. The realisation that it all has to come to an end.

“Bit gutting our holiday’s nearly over,” Yaz offers, and Remy nods in agreement. “But at least we have some fun things planned for when we get home, hey?”

They have many things planned for their return, including a wedding and another exhibition launch at Remy’s work. But Yaz knows they are small consolation for the fact that they actually have to go home, first. Normal life doesn’t quite hold the same potential for excitement.

“Yeah. You know, I think taking time away from work has made me reconsider some things about it.”

Yaz is surprised to hear Remy speak so openly. She’s alluded to stress at work over the past few months but this is the first time she’s actually come out and said anything. 

“Oh?”

“I don't think my heart is really in it anymore,” Remy shrugs. “Coming here has just reminded me how much I like to make art.” 

Although Yaz wasn’t expecting the admission, when she thinks about it properly she isn’t entirely shocked by it. For instance, she hasn’t seen Remy as happy as she is when she has a pencil in her hand and a blank pad of paper balanced on her knee. Something in Remy’s expression always hints at the sheer joy she gets from creating something, and despite their busy sightseeing schedule, Remy is fizzing with an energy that Yaz has not seen before and that can’t be chalked up entirely to the numerous sweet treats she ingests every day. It’s the kind of energy that seems to come from deep within and Yaz finds herself a little envious of it; she doesn’t know what in life gives her quite the same thrill.

“And I miss being surrounded by this.” 

Remy gestures to a portrait of the Madonna that graces a corner they walk past, and Yaz recalls her explaining that they were put there to protect the citizens from evil. 

“Old school. I learned so much here, before. I feel different here. Sometimes it's easy to lose sight of the point of it all when everything's on such a big scale or too far removed. Half the time the exhibits in London are so full that you can barely see a thing but you can walk into a church here and see something glorious, something unexpected, without fanfare. Rome lives and breathes art in a way that London just can’t.”

It’s true. There's something about the city itself that binds it all together in a way that’s hard to ignore. The realisation makes Yaz change tack.

“Why don't you? Make art, that is?”

To her surprise, Remy pulls a face. 

“It's not really a viable income.”

Yaz bites back her first response - Remy is an idealist but this is clearly a much bigger decision than Yaz had realised - and tries to think of a more practical suggestion. Something that might give Remy a different perspective on things. 

“Would you teach? Do classes, that kind of thing?”

Remy shrugs. “Maybe.” 

But as they walk, Yaz can tell that she’s mulling it over. She seems struck by the idea.

“I'm serious,” she re-iterates. “You’d be brilliant at it. You know so much, and you’re really, really good at it.”

Yaz knows that without a doubt and she’s relieved when Remy seems to accept the compliment.

“It's not a bad idea,” she admits. “Yasmin Khan, you are full of surprises.”

“So long as I don't have to come in and model for your classes.”

“No way,” Remy shakes her head. “I'd get jealous. You can only model for me, those are the rules.”

“Hmm.” Yaz slows to a stop, since they’ve found a quiet side street. “Maybe I should put my rates up.”

“I think you’d bankrupt me,” Remy murmurs, and then she’s glancing to the left, to the right, and guiding Yaz backwards into a doorway, out of sight. While their kiss in the Piazza had been relatively tame but no less heart-felt, this is far hungrier and borderline possessive. Despite the heat, Yaz is sure she feels goosebumps break out when Remy starts to run her hands over her back and down her arms. 

“Wait, wait,” Yaz gasps, already struggling to string a sentence together. “We have to do this one thing, right? And then I can take you to bed?”

Remy groans as she remembers what they’re meant to be doing. It must be important because she still seems keen to see it through. 

“Oh, yes. One more thing.”

The Trevi fountain is mobbed, as it has been every time they’ve walked past it. 

“Here we are,” Remy grins, spreading her arms out wide as if she’s showing it to Yaz for the first time. Yaz frowns. 

“We’ve been here before, babe.”

“I know, but we still haven’t done the most important thing.”

Remy rummages in her pockets and Yaz smiles when she sees her tongue emerge at the corner of her mouth again. 

“Questo è tutto!”

Yaz is underwhelmed when she realises that Remy is holding two coins in her hand. 

“Is...is that it?”

“Is that it,” Remy deadpans, rolling her eyes affectionately. “Come and stand next to me.”

She slides her bare arm around Yaz’s lower back and despite the heat, Yaz finds comfort in the gesture. 

“We need to throw them into the fountain.”

“Why two? One each?”

Remy clears her throat, and hesitates. 

“Well...one means that you’ll return to Rome.”

Yaz gives her a second but when no answer is forthcoming, she persists. 

“And two?”

“I’ll tell you once we throw them in. You ready?”

It takes only a second to throw the coins over their shoulders and Yaz hears them plonk into the turquoise water behind them, a satisfying sound that still offers no answer to her question.

Remy starts to lead them back towards the hotel, seemingly done with the Trevi fountain for the time being. Yaz takes one last look at it, still awed by the smooth marble and the sheer size of it. Her pictures don’t quite do it justice, but then they never do. She already knows that when she flicks through her pictures back home she’ll be thinking of the memories they’ve made, rather than the actual sights themselves. And memories cannot truly be committed to pixels or film, not quite to the same extent. 

“So...two coins?” Yaz sighs, wondering when she’ll come back to Rome. She hopes she’ll come back with Remy.

“Two coins mean that you’ll return to Rome...and fall in love.”

For all her insight and all her knowledge, Remy is quite indirect when it comes to certain things, but Yaz has learned to read her fairly well, especially over the past few days. She cups Remy’s pink cheeks with her hands and kisses her softly, swept up in the moment. 

“I think you just wasted a coin.”

Remy’s answering smile is so glorious that it’s brighter than the sun itself. 

“Yeah. I think I did, too.”

* * *

3 months later and there is no sun to enjoy, or gelato to eat, or lazy afternoon naps, but life as Yaz knows it has changed. Fat splats of rain wake her this particular morning, striking the window with a dreary rhythm from the sleep she so dearly needs. Beside her, wrapped in her arms, Remy shifts and stretches in her sleep like a cat and Yaz gives her an affectionate scratch at the back of her neck, half expecting her to purr in response. 

Instead, hazel eyes blink and focus on her, followed shortly by a sleepy smile. 

“Mornin’, Yaz.”

“Morning.”

Yaz can’t quite feel her arm where it’s under Remy’s neck but she doesn’t want to move. Instead, she fixes Remy’s bedhead with her free hand.

“Big day today.”

Remy nods through a yawn. 

“Big day. I can’t believe it’s here.”

The moment she thinks about it, Yaz feels a nervous flutter. There’s another big day coming up in the next few weeks - their first anniversary - but today is just as momentous and she has equally momentous plans that Remy is none the wiser about. She’s not good at keeping secrets, even if they are, technically, a kind of surprise present, but Yaz consoles herself that at least she doesn’t have to keep schtum for too much longer. Both of them have been so flat out that Remy hasn’t seemed to notice Yaz’s recent distraction, anyway.

“I hope this clears off before tonight,” Yaz says, and she curses the weather report for lying and telling her it’d be a dry day. While she knows that Remy’s response won’t be weather dependent, rain certainly could put a literal dampener on proceedings.

“Mm. Remind me why we came back again?” Remy asks. Her nose wrinkles when she turns to look out of the window behind her. It’s cool enough that the edges of the panes of glass are lined with condensation and Yaz is grateful that they don’t have to get out of bed just yet. It’s going to be a long day and a late evening and for the first time in several weeks they have a morning off. 

“So we could appreciate things so much more when we went away. Even watching you get pasta sauce all over a white shirt is just so much more...appealing...when it happens abroad.”

“Oi. I thought you liked my messy eating, remember?”

Yaz thinks about the last time Remy had said that, while they ate fresh pastries on a sunny balcony in Rome. Remy was wrapped in a sheet and Yaz was still recovering from a delightful interlude in bed together. She wishes she could go back, but this moment right now, with her dead arm and the sound of rain outside, is no less enjoyable. While the post-holiday blues had been severe, Yaz realises that the common denominator everywhere has been Remy. Even in Rome, surrounded by beautiful art and weather and food, the best thing was Remy. Yaz had previously been a little envious of Remy’s obvious passion for art but she realises she has a passion for something, too. For someone, to be precise. 

“I do," she nods her head, "and especially when it means I get to take said shirt off afterwards.”

“Perv.”

“Wow,” Yaz scoffs, “and here I was thinking that it’d be nice to start the day getting you naked again. Clearly I’ve been on a different page this whole time.”

She makes to pull back and smirks when Remy complains repeatedly, wrapping an arm around her waist and throwing a leg over her hips to keep her in place. 

“No,” she mumbles into Yaz’s collarbone. “Stay.”

“Fine,” Yaz sighs. “But you might have to let go eventually so I can go pee.”

Remy’s leg moves immediately and Yaz rolls out of bed to do just that but on her way back, she makes a detour via her overnight bag. She’s already helped Remy pick out an outfit for the evening and can’t wait to see her in it, but this element of it is a surprise. 

Remy’s eyes light up when she sees that Yaz is holding something. 

“What’s that?” she asks, sitting upright almost instantly. She’s like a puppy, Yaz thinks, always eager and curious and more than a little nosey. 

“I got you a little something for tonight. A good luck present, I guess.”

Remy’s face when she opens the box is wonderful; her expressions shift from confusion to realisation to delight so quickly and fluidly that Yaz wishes she could slow them down to savour them all individually. 

“A bow tie?”

Yaz nods. She’d spent hours trying to find the right pattern but when she’d seen this particular design, dotted with bronze stars, she’d known it was the right choice. She can’t wait to see how it will go with Remy’s tux. 

“This is brilliant, Yaz. You’re brilliant. Thank you.”

Remy carefully folds the material back up and places the box carefully to one side before she practically launches herself at Yaz, taking her by surprise. Yaz shrieks as she’s pinned to the mattress, but that sound quickly morphs into a happy moan when warm hands slide underneath her pyjama top. 

“And you were calling me a perv,” she exhales, tangling her fingers in Remy’s hair and instantly undoing her efforts to tame it. 

“I never said I wasn’t.”

* * *

Even with copious amounts of time they’re still running late but since Remy is the star of the show for this particular evening, Yaz reasons that they can be given a free pass. As it is, Remy is swept up from the moment they step into the Tate but this time around she ensures Yaz is by her side. She introduces her to the people she works with, the art dealers she knows and the industry connections she will no doubt hope to keep once she’s left her role, and Yaz does her best to keep on top of all of the names and faces. She’s not sure how Remy does it but her brain really does work a mile a minute and it’s all Yaz can do to keep up.

This time around, the atmosphere is far less stuffy; it’s convivial, aided largely by the copious amounts of alcohol and a carefully selected guest list, but there are still a few moments of sadness as Remy says goodbye to the people she’s worked alongside for years. When she makes her inevitable farewell speech, though, it’s to Yaz she looks when she talks of the future. Yaz feels herself getting emotional at the prospect; this time last year she would have no concept of her life changing to this degree, never mind leaving her own job to help someone like Remy run her own studio. All of those daily spreadsheet tasks really did come in handy, it turns out, but doing the admin and advertising for Remy's new business feels nothing like a job and everything like a career she could happily pursue for as long as she's able.

It’s almost eleven o’clock when Yaz finally suggests they leave. The party has shown signs of quieting down but the crowd is still there, and Yaz realises they’re probably waiting for the big reveal, which just so happens to be outside. Yaz sends up a silent prayer that the clouds have moved on or at least stopped raining on London and suggests they take a walk for some air. 

Remy is confused but she doesn’t question anything, and Yaz feels her nerves returning as she says her goodbyes one last time and promises to keep in touch with every single person in the room. Yaz has no idea what Remy will make of her last surprise and she has second thoughts about such a grand gesture. After all, this is more Remy’s area of expertise than hers. 

“Could we cross the river? Take a last look at this place from the other side?”

“Sure,” Remy nods. She tugs at her bow tie, flushed with warmth from the party despite the cold outside. She glances skywards. The clouds are doing their bit and now, Yaz just has to do hers. She hopes that Remy’s boss has done his bit, too, but she’ll only be able to tell if it’s worked once they put some distance between themselves and the building. She doesn’t want to give things away just yet, though, and resolutely looks forwards. 

“You ready for next week?” Yaz asks, keeping her tone deliberately casual. Remy’s classes are due to start on Monday and they’re already full. When Yaz had suggested they put her illustrious CV on the website she'd built, Remy had balked and needed a lot of persuading, but it had worked; the classes had filled up quicker than either of them expected. The past month has been a whirlwind spent getting things ready for them all, to the point where Yaz can’t quite figure out where the time has gone. She knows they'll have their work cut out for them but she cannot wait to set out on this next adventure together.

Remy chats away, oblivious, but once they get to the middle point of the bridge her words start to slow and she frowns. Yaz panics. She realises what’s stopped her: every person on the bridge seems to have turned to look towards the south bank and every person with a phone has taken it out and is now holding it up to take a picture. Despite the lateness of the hour and the cold, it’s still busy, as London always is. 

“What-”

Remy turns, confused, and Yaz sees her reaction so clearly that she’ll never forget it. There’s no rapid progression this time, only shock so absolute that it takes her a moment to shift to a softer look, one that suggests that Yaz’s grand plan has worked perfectly. 

Only then does Yaz let herself look and although she knows what to expect, it’s not quite the same as seeing it in real life. 

Projected on the chimney of the Tate Modern is one of Remy’s sketches from Rome, something she’d called a ‘scribble’ of Yaz that she’d got down on page on their last day. When Yaz had caught sight of it she’d been so touched she’d almost cried. It was more than a portrait: it was an image that showed her just how Remy saw her. As someone who had never looked at themself quite like that, it’s the best gift she’s ever received. Yaz has always considered the subjects of art - those women they’d seen painted in Rome, for example - as being from another world. She’d never considered herself worthy of the same attention. And ever since Remy gave her that portrait, she’s not looked at herself in the same way since.

Remy is still speechless, mouth open as she takes it in. Yaz knows she has to explain herself, at least a little, especially because it’s not just Remy’s art that’s being projected onto the brickwork. There are words, too.

“Remy, I know you only ever want me to see the end result but I think everything you do should be celebrated. Even the unfinished pieces. They’re pretty incredible, to me. You are incredible to me.”

Yaz feels the hand in hers squeeze a little in recognition.

“The art is yours, the face is mine. The words are mine, too.”

Yaz watches as Remy mouths the words but she doesn't need to look to remember them. They've been on her mind for a while.

_ We’re always a work in progress. But that doesn’t mean that what we are, and what we have, is any less _ .

"Look at the mark you've made and think about the mark you're going to make, Remy. You made the right decision to move on."

Remy finally turns to look at her and her eyes are bright with tears. Yaz knows she has been plagued by doubt ever since she handed in her notice because she felt the same despite despising her job; she can only imagine how Remy feels making such a huge change.

"I thought I was meant to be the old, wise one."

Yaz shrugs.

"Sometimes we all just need a reminder. And every time I see you, I remember how lucky I am."

"God, Yaz. This is just...incredible. Thank you."

"You're more than welcome." Yaz smiles as Remy's hands rest on her hips in a gesture that is now so familiar that she can't imagine life without it.

"I think about that first night a lot, you know," Remy murmurs.

Yaz ducks her head as she recalls their first night together. It had been a very memorable evening for several reasons and she thanks her lucky stars that they crossed paths when they did. 

"You know, I always felt like something was missing from my life before then. But then you fell into my life, Yaz, and nothing has been the same. You've reminded me about the wonder in life. The beauty. The serendipity of it all. And my life is far more beautiful with you in it, without a doubt."

Yaz feels herself swooning a little and she realises that this is probably the most romantic moment of her life to date. It doesn't hurt that Remy is in a tux, either. 

"You know what the best decision I ever made was? It was going to get chips that night with you, Yaz. I've not looked back since."

"Those three minutes changed my life," Yaz agrees, finally finding her words. She slides her hands inside Remy's jacket under the pretence of keeping them warm. "If I’d got an earlier train, you wouldn’t have come home with me."

"Not that night, no. Think it was a sign? Three minutes isn’t very long at all."

"It’s long enough for some things. Important things."

"Such as?" Remy tilts her head.

"Such as kissing you."

Yaz pats herself on the back for holding her own and not ruining the moment or putting her foot in it and rewards herself with a kiss that Remy eagerly reciprocates.

They stand there for several minutes, suspended over the water; St Paul’s is on one side and the Globe on the other, and a crowd of tourists and passers by surround them, but they are oblivious to it all. The past is always around them, people are always around them, but most of all, Yaz is looking to the future and contentedly careless about everything else. For the first time in her life she doesn’t feel hemmed in by the city, by the need to fit in, to compete with others and keep her head above water; all she cares about is the feel of Remy with her, beside her, surrounding her. Finally she pulls away to catch her breath, dizzy with excitement. She holds out her hand.

"It just so happens that I know a pretty decent chippy near here. You coming?"

Remy grins at her and takes her hand. They walk across the bridge and into the night, enveloped by the crowd of pedestrians walking that same route, swallowed up by the city once more.

  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> As always you can find me on twitter @_mag_lex.  
> My fics (old and new) can be found at maglexfic.wordpress.com.


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